


Mrs. Turner's Married Ones

by angrybratzlady



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Book Series: The Dark Tower, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:20:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angrybratzlady/pseuds/angrybratzlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson find themselves in the 21st century facing an old enemy and newer, fresher versions of themselves. </p>
<p>It could only end in tears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mrs. Turner's Married Ones

Watson took a fortifying breath before stepping out of the door onto Baker Street.  It was late in the evening; not late enough for the streets to be deserted, but late enough for him to walk without worrying about pedestrian traffic.  He’d been here in this time, in this world for five years, and he still hadn’t fully adjusted to the noise of automobiles, people jabbering endlessly into their mobiles, the occasional aeroplane going overhead, and a thousand other things that Holmes managed to be fascinated by.  He gripped the head of his cane a little harder, resolving to not go down the path of longing for what was lost to him, and focusing on the life he had now.  A life that involved being married to Holmes, and going to Tesco’s late on a Wednesday evening.

It was cold for March, and Watson was glad that he’d worn his greatcoat, despite Holmes throwing flattery his way about a leather jacket he was especially fond of.  Tesco’s proved to be blessedly empty and Watson moved quickly through his shopping, glad of the trolley to help take some of the strain from his leg.  He wasn’t up for another argument with Holmes over taking up their “benefactor’s” offer to have surgery.  Watson had nothing left of his old life, save for his war wounds and Holmes, and he wasn’t about to give up either, and Mycroft Holmes at any size was to be taken with an enormous grain of salt and caution.   

He stood in front of the cereal display,  putting far more thought than was seemly into considering what Holmes might eat (on a somewhat regular basis), what he would eat, and what wouldn’t end up in the bin between their disparity in tastes. It was apparently more engrossing than Watson imagined, because the sound of someone clearing their throat beside him caught him completely by surprise.

“It’s either the ones for geriatrics, or the ones for kids. Not much in-between, is there?” The shorter man smiled briefly, reaching for a box of Weetabix that he tucked into the basket on his arm.

John Watson, of 221B Baker Street, and the 21st Century nodded at John Watson, former physician, husband of Mary Morstan Watson and of the year 1895, clearly anticipating his neighbor recognizing him, though they hadn’t formally met.  It was the absolute worst thing that Watson could have imagined happening. Oh well, there was nothing for it now.

“Yes.  I suppose that’s a good choice, since I’m not fond of…tiny marshmallows,” Watson said, choosing a box for himself before extending his hand.  “Ormond Sacker,” he said, noting John’s firm grip and how he met his gaze steadily.  Still a soldier, then.  Good to know.

“John Watson.  I’m at 221 B …”

“I know,” Watson blinked at his own abruptness.  “What I mean is, I’ve seen you from time to time, along with your…” he let the question hang between them.  It wouldn’t do to assume.

“Flatmate.  Sherlock is just my flatmate, and friend. Well, it’s nice to finally meet you.  Mrs. Hudson has mentioned you and your, ah, husband, but we don’t really ,” John shrugged and offered Watson a crooked smile. “We don’t socialize a lot, outside of Sherlock’s cases.” 

Watson nodded.  “I understand.  It’s the same for us, with Sherringford’s work, and my hours at the lab,” He licked his lips out of habit, feeling like he’d said far too much, judging by the way John’s head cocked to the side in interest. Sort of like a dog that had caught an interesting scent.  What was more interesting was that he seemed unable to help himself.  “We have to remedy that one day.”

John nodded, offering a brief smile.  “We should, yeah,” There was an awkward pause before John gestured at his basket.  “Well, I’d best be off, then. Dinner won’t make itself.”

Well, it seemed that many things were consistent where Sherlock Holmes was concerned, no matter the timeline.  Watson nodded. “No, it certainly won’t.  Good evening,” He said, nearly reaching to touch the brim of a hat he wasn’t wearing.  He hurried through the rest of his shopping, walking briskly back home despite the slight ache settling into his shoulder and leg. No doubt Holmes had made a mess of the place and was far too interested in what was on his laptop than finding anything resembling a meal.

Sometimes it was all Watson could do to remember that he’d come up with the brilliant idea of marrying Holmes for good reasons, and not just as part of a plan to drive himself completely round the bend.  Maneuvering carefully past Mrs. Turner’s door with his shopping, Watson could hear the telly, at least one radio and Holmes muttering darkly to himself over the stereo and The Rolled Stones, or something like it.  He really needed to re-examine the symptoms of emotional disturbance

 


End file.
